Sample Chapter-Dry Bones

Dry Bones By
Gerald McCathern
from the Novel Dry Bones ISBN 0-9656946-2-3 Copyright 1999
Chapter 1
The kid rode into Hidetown, a small community on the banks of the Sweetwater Creek in the Texas Panhandle, with a string of eight horses trailing behind. He rode into town warily, looking right and left down the sandy street, as if expecting trouble. Or perhaps, just to be prepared if trouble came. For this was tough country where the dregs of western humanity had chosen to establish a place of commerce. A place where thousands of buffalo hides were brought in daily by hunters, to be stretched and dried and sold to freighters who carried them on wagons to market at Dodge City, one hundred and thirty miles to the north.
Stopping at the hitching rail of the Lady Gay Saloon, he dismounted and tied the horses to the rail. The ride from Atascosa Crossing had been long, hot and dusty and he was ready for a drink to wash the dirt from his throat. He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow, then used the hat to beat some of the dust off his sweat streaked shirt and chaps.
Ned, with Sonny and Miguel, had arrived from Ceebara headquarters only a few minutes before him, and they were loading supplies into the wagon in front of the mercantile, which was located next door to the Lady Gay.
Actually, the mercantile was surrounded by saloons, Hidetown boasting eleven of the establishments, catering to the wishes of the buffalo hunters, the soldiers from nearby Fort Elliot, the teamsters from Dodge City and now, the cowboys from Ceebara–the first cattle ranch established in the unsettled and uncharted Texas Panhandle.
Although in its infancy, Hidetown was like most frontier towns, with an abundance of saloons which were well stocked with whiskey, beer and painted ladies–a place where the gold paid for buffalo hides could be exchanged for the wishes of the wild and tough men who plied the trade. The rough hewn tables within the saloons were always crowded with card sharps, hunters and soldiers–betting their money and sometimes their lives on a turn of the cards. And the rooms at the back of the bar were always filled with the painted ladies, where they entertained anyone, with a gold coin in his pocket, for a share of their newly found wealth.
Ned Armstrong and Colonel Jim Cole, founders of Ceebara, had met on the battlefield in Virginia at the end of the Civil War, where the Colonel had lost his right arm to canon grape. Ned had nursed him back to health and traveled with him back to Texas, where they laid claim to a million acres of lush grasslands in the Texas Panhandle, land which had been a grant to the Colonel by the legislature of the Republic of Texas, back in 1844. For the past ten years, since 1865, the Colonel and Ned had carved out a working ranch in this frontier area, a stronghold of the Comanche Indians, by making friends with the great Comanche Chief, Quanah Parker.
The Red River Wars between the Indians and white buffalo hunters and the U.S. Army had ended, and the last of the tribes, Quanah Parker’s Kwahadi Comanches, had been forced onto the reservations in the Oklahoma Territory. Without the impediment of the ferocious Indians, buffalo
hunters accelerated their systematic slaughter of the millions of buffalo roaming the grasslands of the Texas Panhandle.
Hidetown, on the Sweetwater Creek, had sprung up as a gathering place where the hide hunters could deliver their hides to buyers who in turn hauled them over the Ceebara Trail to Dodge City where they were shipped to Chicago by rail. It was a wide-open frontier town with absolutely no law, a place where the weak and the meek dare not tarry–a place where gun shots could be heard hourly and graves were dug daily. It quickly became known as the roughest and wildest town in the west– a sin town where nothing was sacred. It did, however, offer the nearest place for the cowboys to buy supplies for the ranch, less than a days ride from ranch headquarters.
Colonel Cole had cautioned his cowboys, and especially Ned, to steer clear of the troublemakers in the town. Before the war with the Yankees, he had been a part of the wild bunch that had fought for Texas’ freedom from the Mexicans, having been the youngest member of the band of Texicans that holed up in the Alamo. Only by fate, and the need for someone to carry a message out of the mission to General Sam Houston, was he able to escape the massacre that befell his comrades. Colonel Travis and his friend Davy Crockett, had placed him, a green sixteen-year-old kid, on the fastest horse in the Alamo and slipped him out under the cover of darkness. What he and the horse couldn’t outrun, they jumped over, and he was able to get through the Mexicans’ lines and delivered the message to Houston. Before he could return, the Mexicans overran the mission and the Alamo became history.
His association with Crockett, Bowie, Travis and the rest of that wild bunch taught him to use the six shooter with the best of them, and he had built a reputation of being one of the fastest guns in Texas, before he rode off with a group of Texas volunteers to fight alongside General Lee in the war.
“Steer clear of that bunch of hunters in Hidetown,” he had told Ned. “If they try to start something, just turn and walk away. They’d as soon shoot you in the back as look at you. I know I taught you to use your guns for protection, and you’re probably as fast and as straight as anyone, but if you tangle with one of those hunters, you’re liable to have the whole wolf pack on your back.”
Ned looked up from his work as he stacked another sack of beans into the bed of the wagon and watched as the kid tied his string of horses to the rail. They were beautiful horses, tall and muscular and showing the looks of good cow ponies. One gray stallion, especially, caught Ned’s eye. He was always looking for good horses to add to Ceebara’s remuda – and especially good stallions to crossbreed to their mares.
Walking over, he spoke, “Howdy — good looking set of horses. Don’t suppose they’re for sale?”
The kid smiled and answered, “Maybe, if’n the price is right.” Ned stuck out his hand, “Ned Armstrong from the Ceebara ranch over on Red Deer Creek.” “Bonney, Billy Bonney, but most folks just call me Kid,” the stranger answered, smiling as
he took Ned’s hand, then added, “Heard they was a ranch over in these here parts. I guess those longhorns I passed up on top of the plains carrying that C Bar A brand must be a part of your herd. Sure was a helluva lot of ‘em, they was strung out from here clean up to that buffalo hunters camp at Atascosa Crossing on the Canadian.”
Ned couldn’t help but notice that the kid’s Colt was slung low and tied down in the style that gun slingers wore. Another hot-head looking to get himself killed, Ned thought. Especially here in Hidetown, there’s a hundred toughs here who would like an opportunity to build their reputation by adding one more notch to their guns by taking on a green kid like this in a showdown.
“Buy you a drink?” Ned asked, as he walked around the horses, looking each over closely, then added, “We might just see if my dollars fit your horses.”
“Best deal I’ve been offered all day,” the kid answered as he led the way through the swinging doors of the Lady Gay. They pushed through the crowd of buffalo hunters and soldiers
and walked up to the bar. “Hello, Jake,” Ned greeted the bartender. “Howdy, Ned, heard you was in town. How’s the Colonel these days?” “Ornery as ever, Jake. Me and Sonny and Miguel thought we’d ride in for supplies and get
away from his snarling,” Ned joked. “Well, Jones and Plummer brought in a new load of goods by freight wagon just yesterday.
Should be able to get what you need,” the bartender said, then added, “What’ll it be?” “Just give us a bottle of your best, we’re going to see if we can do some horse swapping.” Ned and the Kid walked to a table in the corner and sat down. Ned had never liked hard
liquor and seldom drank, but knew it was sociable to share a drink when horse trading was involved–and he knew this stranger had a strong thirst built up after a long, dry ride across the prairie. He poured two glasses and was surprised when the kid turned his up and downed it in one gulp, pushing the glass forward for a refill.
“I worked up a mighty thirst up there on the plains,” he said as he pushed his hat to the back of his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Under the covering of dust which covered his body, Ned could see that the Kid was a rather handsome fellow, had it not been for the protrusion of his two front teeth. Although short in stature, probably no more than five feet six inches tall, the Kid appeared to be very muscular and stout. His dark, unruly hair, stuck from beneath his hat and fell across his brow. His smile was infectious, one that invited friendship.
But his eyes–there was something hidden there in their depths that seemed to say, “I’d like to be your friend, but I’ve learned that friends sometime betray you.”
“Where you from, Kid,” Ned asked as he sipped his drink. “Around,” came the answer. Ned didn’t push, most folks found in towns like Hidetown were not too prone to speak about
their past, where they were from or where they were going. If the Kid had secrets he could keep them as far as Ned was concerned. The Kid had horses for sale and he was interested in buying horses.
As they sat at the rough table, each looking squarely into the other’s eyes, Ned asked, “What’s your price?”
“One or all?” the Kid asked. “All.” “Guess you noticed that big gray — helluva horse. I’m gonna have to have a hundred for him,
the others fifty apiece.” “That’d be four-fifty for the string?” “Si,” the Kid replied, reverting to a soft, Spanish accent, smiling. But he’s not Mexican, Ned thought, must be from down along the border or maybe over
Santa Fe way. “Three-fifty would fit my dollars better,” he said. “No Bueno, Senor, but maybe we could talk about splitting it. Four hundred.” Pushing his hand across the table, Ned nodded his head in agreement and said, “Deal.” May
be just a green kid, he thought, but he knows horses and knows how to make a deal. His respect for the youngster was growing.
Ned failed to notice six tough looking drifters seated at a table across the room who were watching the transaction with too much interest. It was apparent that they, too, were interested in the Kid’s horses.
Ned and the Kid walked out of the saloon into the bright sunlight of the West Texas day and strode toward the horses tied to the rail. Deer flies were pestering the horses and they were swishing their tails, and now and then stomping their hooves to keep the flies airborne.
A small whirlwind twisted across the street kicking up a trail of dust as a black cur dog,, caught in the twisting dirt, tucked his tail between his legs and crawled under the wagon. Ned pulled four, one hundred dollar gold coins from the leather pocket of his buckskin chaps and handed them to the young horse trader.
“Guess I’ll need a bill of sale,” he said as the money changed hands. The Kid smiled and said, “You write it, I’ll sign it.” Ned pulled a pencil and paper from his shirt pocket and wrote, “Eight horses, one large gray
stallion, three sorrel geldings, three bay mares and one blazed face black filly with three stocking feet, sold to Ned Armstrong for four hundred dollars by Billy Bonney, whose signature is signed below. No apparent brands or marks on any of the horses.”
The Kid signed it and returned the paper to Ned as the six tough looking, dirty drifters stepped from the saloon and walked towards the horses. They stopped about twenty paces away from Ned and the Kid. The leader of the group, a huge bull of a man with long, black, unkempt hair and scraggly beard spoke with a growl, “Them looks like my horses that some horse thief stole from me a week ago up on the Arkansas.” The deep, crescent shaped scar across his cheek pulled the corner of his mouth down into a wicked looking snarl as he spoke.
The Kid stepped away from the horses where he could see all six of the men standing with legs spread apart and their hands hanging close to the butts of their Colts which were slung low on their hips.
“You must be mistaken, mister,” he said coolly, “I trailed a couple dozen head from New Mexico over to Atascosa and sold all of them to buffalo hunters except these eight head. Them buffalo hunters didn’t know a good horse from a bad one and I still got the top end of the herd.”
“I ain’t mistaken, you’re a horse thief and them’s my horses,” the scar-faced leader replied.
Ned could see that the scar-faced renegade was pushing for a showdown that would draw the Kid into a gunfight in which he would be outnumbered and outgunned.
The five drifters, who backed the speaker, fidgeted nervously as they observed the Kid’s coolness.
“Just a minute, mister,” Ned interrupted. “I just bought them horses and they don’t belong to either one of you, they’re mine until you can prove otherwise. I don’t see no brand that says they’re yours.”
Ned was quite a contrast to the dark haired Kid. Six feet tall, a little on the skinny side, with well groomed blonde hair which hung from under his hat, nearly shoulder length.
“I don’t have to prove nothing to you, cowboy. Me and my partners say they’re mine, and we’re taking them now.”
The Kid had slowly moved away from Ned, all the while watching the hands of the six drifters. Ned, caught up in the argument, knew that the Kid’s eyes were riveted on the big man, so he shifted his eyes to the other five as he slowly moved away from the horses, watching to see if they were going to back up their leader.
Sonny and Miguel, hearing the argument, moved quickly to the side of the street and caught the attention of two of the renegades, who nervously moved their hands away from their guns and hitched their fingers in their gun belts. Sonny smiled, and nodded to the gunmen that he expected them to keep their hands in that position.
The big man’s fingers twitched and his eyes blinked nervously. His eyes gave him away as he grabbed for his gun. The Kid’s gun was in his hand before the big man’s Colt ever broke leather, spewing lead into his adversary’s chest.
Ned had been watching the other two gunmen who were standing next to the leader. As they made their move, in a flash his gun was in his hand and firing. Both of the gunmen went down from Ned’s quick shots, guns half drawn, their eyes open in death. The Kid’s Colt spit lead at another who had his gun out and was firing. Blood stained the Kid’s shirt just above the belt and close to the left side. As he was knocked backwards, his shot found its mark in the gunman’s throat, sending him spinning to the side. The astonished drifter dropped his gun and grabbed his throat in an effort to stop the flow of blood — to no avail. His scream was drowned in his own blood as it squirted between his fingers — with his mouth open unbelieving,, his knees buckled and he fell face forward into the dirt of the street and gasped his last breath. Sonny quickly drew his Colt and turned it towards the other two gunmen who had thrown their empty hands above their heads and were shouting, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. We ain’t a part of this fight.”
Motioning towards the big man lying in a pool of blood, the slim one said, “Those horses don’t belong to him, he just thought the kid would be easy pickins and we could take his herd without a fight.”
Sonny and Miguel, guns in their hands, relieved the two remaining gunmen of their weapons as Ned turned to help the Kid who was now kneeling and holding his hand over the flesh wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
“O.K., you two hombres pick up your dead friends and find some place to plant ‘em, then mount up and get out and don’t let us see you in these parts again or you’ll end up six feet under with your pardners here,” Ned said as he helped the Kid to his feet.
Pulling the Bowie knife from his belt, Ned slashed the Kid’s shirt and exposed the wound in his side.
“Don’t look too bad, the bullet went clean through,” he said, as he made a compress with his neckerchief and pressed it against the wound. “But you’re going to be out of commission for a few days. If you want to ride along with us, we’ll stop by the Fort and let their Doc patch it up then you can ride in the wagon back to the ranch. A few days rest and you should be good as new; besides, after that draw there’s liable to be a few gun slingers in town that would like to try you just to see if that was luck or if you really are that fast. Pulling down on you might help to build their reputations as killers.”
The Kid smiled and said, “Seems to me you may be a little faster. Could be they might want to try you on for size.”
A crowd had gathered at the front of each of the saloons which lined the dirt street, and it was apparent that most of the onlookers were as tough and seedy as this group of gunmen had been. Ned certainly didn’t want to get the reputation as a fast draw and have to worry about taking on some of them every time he came to town.
The Kid winced, as Ned pressed his bandana over the hole to stop the blood, and replied. “That’s mighty accommodating, Ned. Guess my business in Hidetown is done and I’ll be heading back to New Mexico. It’s a long ride and a few days rest would do me good. I reckon I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Sonny and Miguel moved the supplies over to one side in the wagon and made a bed of saddle blankets and helped the Kid into the wagon. The string of horses were tied to the back and they headed out of town, taking the northwest road to Fort Elliot, which lay just over the ridge about a mile.
After stopping at the fort to allow the army surgeon to clean and dress the wound, Ned walked to the fort’s Headquarters and asked to speak to the fort’s commander, Major James Biddle, who commanded the Sixth Cavalry. Ned had met Major Biddle in Dodge City on their last cattle drive.
“Come in Ned, good to see you again. What can I do for you?”
“Major,” Ned responded, nodding his head,”the Colonel sent me over to pick up some supplies and I got caught up in a shooting in Hidetown. Friend of mine took a little lead in the side and your surgeon is working on him. Looks like he might need to stay over for the night and I was just wondering if you’d have any objections to putting us up till morning?”
“Don’t see how I can refuse an old army scout and Medal of Honor winner,” the Major smiled. “You tell Sergeant Major McClanahan to put you up in the non-commissioned officers quarters and tell the mess sergeant that you’ll be eating with us while you are here. I’d be honored if you would have dinner with me and my officers this evening.”
“My pleasure, Major.” “We’ll be eating at seven.” Ned thanked him, subconsciously gave a limber-wrist salute to the brim of his hat, and
walked from the room. Returning to the base hospital, he informed the doctor of his decision to remain at the fort until morning. “I think that’s wise, Ned. This boy’s wound is not too severe but he lost a lot of blood. He should be able to make the ride without any problems tomorrow,” the doctor said, adding, “We’ll keep him here in the dispensary until you get ready to leave.”
After stowing their plunder in the barracks, Ned asked Sonny and Miguel to tend to the team and keep watch over the Kid until the evening meal when they were to eat with the soldiers. “The Major has asked me to take dinner with him and his officers in the officers’ mess. I’ll see you later at the barracks.”
After a bath and a change of clean clothes, Ned walked to the officers’ mess which was on the other side of the parade ground. A young black corporal escorted him into the small dining room where Major Biddle and his contingent of officers were discussing tomorrow’s planned activities for the cavalry.
“Come in! Come in, Armstrong!” Biddle shouted, then stepped to the center of the room and placed his arm around Ned’s shoulders and said, “Gentlemen, I want you to meet Chief Scout for Colonel Ranald MacKenzie during the Red River Wars. His knowledge of the area was instrumental in the successful campaign to push the recalcitrants back onto the reservations. I might add that he, along with the other six members of the Battle of Buffalo Wallow, was recommended for and awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. To my knowledge, that was the only battle in the history of our nation when every member involved was so honored.”
“Armstrong, I would like for you to meet my officers; Captain Johnson, Adjutant; Lieutenant Beckman, A Company; Lieutenant Woolsey, B Company; Lieutenant McGregor, C Company — and Captain Peters, our post surgeon who I understand you have already met. Gentlemen, Scout Ned Armstrong!”
Each of the officers stepped by and shook Ned’s hand, then offered a toast to the health of the former scout. Ned was embarrassed with the praise being bestowed upon him. He had never considered himself a hero, and for that matter didn’t look upon his deeds as bravery, merely as doing the job that he had been hired to do. If anyone was a hero, it was his friend, Billy Dixon. Billy had held the small band together during the battle, and his accuracy with a Winchester had kept the large war party of Cheyennes from overrunning their buffalo wallow position.
As they sat down around the huge table, Colonel Biddle spoke. “Ned, I understand that you are a good friend of Quanah Parker, Chief of the Comanches. Maybe you can tell me whether he’s apt to be a problem to us.”
“What do you mean, problem?” Ned asked. “Quanah’s on the reservation at Fort Sill. How can he cause a problem?”
“There’s talk that he might try to slip off the reservation and bring his tribe back and reopen the conflict. With just this one fort to patrol the area, it’s going to be hard for us to prevent that from happening.”
“You don’t have to worry about Quanah, Colonel. He gave his word to me and Colonel Cole, and to Colonel MacKenzie as well, that he would remain on the reservation and try to make a better life for his people. Quanah’s word is sacred.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Armstrong,” Major Biddle replied as he motioned for the men to take their seats around the dinner table.
Since most of the officers were new to the territory, they were anxious to hear Ned’s tales of the recent wars with the Indians. They all started asking questions at once.
“Gentlemen,” the Major said, “Let Mr. Armstrong eat his dinner, there will be plenty of time after the meal to hear his stories.”
After the meal was finished, Major Biddle instructed one of the aides to bring a bottle of his finest whiskey and a box of his best cigars, then asked Ned to tell about his experiences during the recent Indian wars.
Ned, never one to talk much, allowed as how there wasn’t much to tell. “Colonel Miles took me on as scout, along with Billy Dixon, Bat Masterson and Amos Chapman, and we just did our jobs the best we knew how.”
“There’s more to it than that, Armstrong,” Biddle said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, when you and Colonel Cole first came into this wild country and made friends with the Indians?”
Ned relaxed and began the story of their friendship with Quanah Parker, how they had
become blood brothers after he and Colonel Cole had saved Quanah from quicksand in the Canadian River.
“Guess you must have met old Chief Nocona, Quanah’s father,” Captain Johnson asked. “They tell me he was a vicious bastard, had a scalp pole long as my leg that was filled up with white men’s scalps.”
“No, sir,” Ned replied. “Well, yes sir, I knew Chief Nocona, but no, sir, he didn’t strike me as being vicious. I’d say he was a great chief that did a good job of taking care of his tribe. You got to understand, Captain, this was the Comanche’s homeland and what they did, taking scalps and all, was done in trying to protect their land. They trusted me and the Colonel and let us live amongst them in peace. I’d say those scalps you’ve heard about were probably taken from whites who didn’t respect the Comanches’ rights.”
The officers around the table looked at Ned as if they couldn’t believe what he was saying. It was absolutely unthinkable for army personnel to believe that the Indians had any rights.
“After Chief Nocona was killed in the first battle at the old adobe ruins on the Canadian — that was when Colonel Kit Carson and his cavalry and foot soldiers were nearly massacred by the Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches and Cheyennes — Quanah was elevated to Chief of the Comanches, and he protected his tribe as well as his father had done,” Ned explained. “That was during the summer of ‘65 when me and the Colonel first started our ranch. Even with the army and the buffalo hunters raising hell with the Indians, Quanah and his tribe continued to treat us as friends.”
Seeing that his officers did not agree with Ned’s analysis of the Indians, Major Biddle attempted to change the subject. “How did you join up with Colonels Miles and MacKenzie as their scout, Ned.”
“That was after the second battle at the old adobe walls ruins on the Canadian, Major, when the buffalo hunters, just twenty-two of ‘em, held off over a thousand Indians for two days. During that battle, Colonel Cole got caught with the buffalo hunters and when Quanah discovered he was there, our friendship ended. A couple of weeks later, he led his tribe in an attack on our ranch headquarters. After that, the Colonel and I decided we had to help the army in order to protect our families so I joined up with Colonel Miles as scout, since I knew the area much better than any of his troop.”
For two hours, Ned related to the officers of Fort Elliot his exploits as scout with Colonel Miles, and later with Colonel MacKenzie, explaining the terrain which they were going to be patrolling.
As he rose to leave, Major Biddle thanked him for his information and told him that he was welcome at the fort anytime.
“Thanks, Major,” Ned replied. “I hope you will visit our ranch, I’m sure Colonel Cole would like to meet you.”
Out of habit, he saluted, turned and walked out into the night.
The next morning, Ned and Sonny helped the Kid into the wagon, pulled out of the perimeter of the fort, and headed north following dim wagon tracks towards the valley of the Washita. This was the same trail that he, the Colonel, Belle, Sonny and Miguel had taken the day that Quanah’s braves stampeded the buffalo herd down the Sweetwater and over the hundreds of buffalo hunters camps along the stream’s banks. Over one hundred of the hunters had been trampled to death that day by the stampeding herd.
The sun was just falling below the caprock as they topped the last rolling hill above Red Deer Creek and looked down upon the huge, rambling ranch house which was the headquarters of the Ceebara spread.
The horses broke into a trot, realizing that they were nearly home. Shep ran down the trail to greet them with a loud bark and the two mules in the nearby corral shattered the evening silence with a loud, piercing bray.
The door to the ranch house opened as they pulled up to the hitching rail, and a tall, one armed man stepped out followed by two beautiful ladies. The man was ex-Confederate Colonel
Jim Cole, Ned’s partner and father figure. The ladies were Ned’s wife Kate and her mother, Belle, who had married the Colonel nearly ten years before.
Kate rushed down the steps and threw her arms around Ned’s neck as he dismounted and tied the buckskin to the rail. Ned smiled and kissed her upturned lips, placed his arm around her shoulders and walked her back towards the veranda of the ranch house where Jim and Belle stood watching. A young boy, about ten years old, burst through the door of the ranch house and grabbed Ned by the hand.
Ned squeezed his hand and smiled down at him, “Why don’t you look in my saddlebags, Cole,” he said, “should be some licorice sticks that Pete sent you.”
Then, looking back at the wagon and nodding to Jim, he said, “Brought you a present from Hidetown.”
“I see,” Jim replied, “looks like a good string of ponies. How’d you come onto them?”
“Wasn’t talking about the horses,” Ned said in his slow southern drawl. “Got a wounded cowboy in the wagon.”
They stepped quickly from the porch and walked to the wagon where Billy was trying to sit up on the bed of saddle blankets. Sonny and Ramon reached strong arms in and helped him to the ground.
“Kid, this here’s my family–Colonel Cole, his wife Belle and my wife Kate. Folks, this is Billy Bonney, but he says just call him Kid.”
“Well, Kid, looks like you might have been standing a little too close to some passing lead,” Jim said as he shook hands with the wounded stranger. “Come on in the house and tell us what happened.”